Lightning Bugs
by trufflemores
Summary: Short little Westallen piece, describing a summer's eve with The Flash.


A summer's eve with The Flash:

They lounge in a field of fireflies, watching cerulean light fade to royal blue, breath set to catch the trickling degrees of sunset into midnight, indigo air stirring a sea of green as the universe catches its breath.

Balanced, she has her back to an oak tree with bark fit for a god, conjuring an image of a hellhound lying on a wooden porch, grey belly up to catch the evening breeze promising rain another-day, owing its existence to this talkative old oak that creaks under the breeze's warm murmurings, let-there-be-life and let-there-be-night tied into the lazy current of the day.

Dwindling into darkness, the stage is set to permit the show, the fireflies dancing, and The Flash?

The Flash lies in repose, wearing not a suit of armor but a soft red t-shirt with a soft yellow lightning bolt emblazoned on a soft white emblem, insignia, owing its origin to the same root word as _sign_ , branded by the soft yellow life and the fearsome red glow, the white light of the Speed Force blinding those eyes turned upon it for too long, lust and hopefulness decaying into the sea of self-awareness at a geological pace because the infinite can outwait any fleeting appetite.

The Flash's appetite is not wanting tonight – lying flat on his belly, flat on his belly but not on the grass, he reposes at a perpendicular angle to his tree-mate, torso sloped along the hills of Iris' upraised and lowered legs, one knee canted up underneath his belly for balance, the other flat under his sternum, his body mapping the rise and fall of her form.

Dozing deeply, head pillowed on his folded forearms, eyes shut, he snores softly, as inoffensive as crickets, chest pressing against the safe little hill underneath himself, his comfort dictated by the innate agreeability of sleeping on top of someone trusted more than the air filling his lungs, more trustworthy than the lights tracing lunar patterns across his hairline.

One day, the moon will not shine, but Iris' love for him will endure.

Dreaming, he stays tethered to her by the hand she rests on the small of his back, resting on top of a maze of arching brambling musculature in rare fine form, untangled by warm water and navigable to the careful bystander, responsive to soft touches without the overbearing clutch of tripolymer on top of it, her fingers sliding against the shirt, against his skin, and back again.

The Flash has nice, soft, supple skin, fit for an Olympian who strayed off the mountain to rescue the mortal world, gifted with the garb of the gods, but Iris keeps her touches gentle, for she knows that underneath the unblemished, unaltered, untraceable flesh there reside hidden pains, little irretrievable thorns sticking into countless places, and she might smooth and soothe but never remove the ache.

She wants to – she wants, and so she traces constellations against his skin to match the seascape above them, jet-black, night-blue, and he twitches occasionally when she finds a spot that makes him laugh instead of grimace, but under the veil of sleep he does not rise to either feat, trusting her to the ends of his mortal earth to not let the fire consume him while he lies quiet, refusing to put it out because even he longs for the coolness, the softness, the contemplative peace of dark grass and dark trees and a plain full of nothing but fireflies.

Fireflies, fireflies, echoing chambers full of fireflies, echoing on until the firelight dies, dancing before her sleepy eyes, dancing together to a sleepy reprise.

They dance alone in their multitudes, appearing together but never together, inhabiting finite moments of existence before disappearing again, appearing, disappearing, in a thousand places but not at once, altering their positions chaotically in one grand performance, existing to exist, ritualistically carrying their little worlds on their little backs.

The Flash dozes against her, embracing deep sleep, claiming a single corner of solitude in a world that needs him a little too much, and her hand tangles in his hair, and frames it, and silently aches to always remember what it feels like to cup the back of his head, to know that he trusts her this much, that he loves her this much.

A summer's eve with The Flash is a summer's eve with Barry, saying goodnight to that fading blue light and embracing the world that is just them, and the lightning bugs.


End file.
